Liv heaved a grateful sigh. She wanted to be there for Ingrid, to listen to her worries and provide a shoulder to cry on. But tonight, it really would have been one big scene too many. She said warmly, ‘‘A bath and a good night’s sleep. My intentions exactly.’’
‘‘And how about dinner, tomorrow night? I’ll have Hilda make your favorite stuffed pork chops. Say sevenish?’’
‘‘Sounds wonderful. I’ll be there.’’
Liv was just about to say good-night when it occurred to her that her mother might hear about her so-called engagement before she could explain the situation tomorrow at dinner. Ingrid hopefully would take such news with a grain of salt. But then again, she might completely freak. Hard to say. ‘‘Listen, Mom, I just want to warn you.’’
‘‘My. This does sound ominous.’’ Ingrid’s voice was light. Almost teasing.
And Liv wanted it to stay that way. ‘‘It’s not ominous. Not in the least. It’s nothing. I met this, well, this very charming man, in Gullandria. We spent some time together. You know, just casual?’’ Well, okay, not completely casual. But she was hoping Ingrid would never have to know about that. ‘‘We danced. We…talked. We went riding. He gave me a tour of Lysgard. He, um, showed Brit and me around….’’
‘‘Darling, what are you getting at?’’
‘‘Well, his name is Danelaw. Prince Finn Danelaw. And somehow, the press has gotten hold of it. As usual, they’ve made a big deal out of nothing. They seem to think I’m engaged to Finn. It’s not true. There’s nothing between us. And I, well, I just wanted you to hear it from me first, that’s all.’’
Her mother made a noise in her throat.
Liv couldn’t decide what that sound might mean. ‘‘Mom, it’s nothing. I just didn’t want you to read it first in the papers or have somebody tell you before I had a chance to.’’
‘‘Darling.’’
‘‘Mmm?’’
‘‘Don’t give it another thought. I know how the press is.’’ And she did, of course. After all, Ingrid Freyasdahl Thorson had been known for over two decades as the Runaway Gullandrian Queen. She was no stranger to scandal or to lying reporters. ‘‘And look at it this way…’’
‘‘What way?’’
‘‘If they had to pair you with a Gullandrian, at least he’s a Danelaw. It’s a very old family. Very wealthy. And powerful—at least at one time. Dane-laws once sat on the throne of Gullandria, did you know that? For several generations, as a matter of fact.’’
‘‘Mom, that’s not the point.’’
‘‘Of course it’s not, darling. I’m only trying to…look on the bright side.’’
‘‘There is no bright side to nosy reporters making up lies about me.’’
‘‘Sweetheart. Take a bath. Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow night.’’
* * *
Liv thought of Simon after she hung up. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow she’d make the time to give him a call.
She went to the bathroom and filled the claw-footed tub. She soaked for an hour.
But when she climbed into the big, comfy canopy bed with the fat, luxurious pillow-top mattress, sleep wouldn’t come. Every time she’d relax, she’d find herself thinking sexy thoughts about Finn—the way his hair curled at his nape, the feel of his hand wrapped around hers, the brush of that thumb of his—gently, relentlessly—against her palm.
She’d catch herself and groan in frustration—and realize she was wide-awake.
She got up at seven, ate breakfast and spent a half an hour carefully making up her face, troweling on the concealer in an effort to hide the dark smudges beneath her eyes. Then she dressed for success in a knee-grazing pencil skirt, short jacket to match, with her faux croc pumps and the beautiful single strand of Mikimoto pearls her Granny Birget had presented to her on her graduation from high school, right after she’d given the valedictory speech. Liv always felt good when she wore her valedictory pearls.
Her platinum blue Lexus was waiting in back. When she pulled out of the driveway and onto Thirteenth Street, she spotted a reporter crouched among the rhododendrons beside the house’s wide front porch. The man’s camera was pressed to his face. He pointed the thing at her car as she rolled up to the corner stop sign.
Liv put the passenger window down, leaned across the seat and signaled the man over. She smiled for a couple of close-ups and reassured him that, no, she really was not going to marry Prince Finn Danelaw. ‘‘And I would appreciate it if you’d stay out of the rhododendrons. They break so easily and you know this isn’t even actually my house. A friend of the family’s has let me use it for the summer.’’
Bowing and scraping, the man backed away, promising he’d never get near the flowerbeds again.
At the State Attorney General’s Office, Liv spent the day answering phones, typing letters and researching a few finer points of law. She had no illusions about the complexity of her three-month job. The work she did as an intern was what any junior clerk might do. In terms of job description, she wasn’t much more than a glorified gofer. She got work-study units for it in lieu of a salary.
But the contacts she was making were invaluable. One in every seven Americans lived in California. It was, in terms of the numbers and diversity of its people, by far the biggest state in America. And Liv, at the age of twenty-three, was rubbing elbows with those who ran it.
She left work at a little after six, with plenty of time to stop in at the house on T Street, where she noticed with satisfaction that the rhododendrons were undisturbed. Not a reporter in sight.
She got rid of her panty hose and changed into sandals, a more casual skirt and a comfy embroidered gauze peasant top. She thought of Simon again right before she went back out the door. She was early. She had time to give him a quick call.
But no. What she had to tell him wasn’t something she could explain in a ten-minute call. Later tonight, she promised herself.
She got to her mother’s at twenty of seven. The three-story Tudor where Liv and her sisters had grown up sat on a wide, curving tree-shaded street. The graceful old houses were set far back from the sidewalks, up long sweeps of green lawn, with driveways that led around back, to three-and four-car garages, maids’ quarters above. Not a street of mansions, by any means. But a street that spoke of prosperity, of the very-well-to-do. The sisters had always known that their mother—not only a runaway queen, but an heiress in her own right—could have raised them in a bigger house. They could have lived in San Diego or Beverly Hills. In a Park Avenue town house. In a palace in Timbuktu.
But Ingrid had wanted her daughters to have ‘‘some semblance of a normal childhood.’’ So they attended public schools—not always the safest endeavor in recent years. They played soccer on community teams. And they lived on a nice, wide, oak-shaded street in Land Park.
Liv pulled into the driveway on the side of the house and drove on beneath the porte cochere to the wide parking area with its row of four garages in back. She went in through the back door, the heels of her sandals tapping on the terra-cotta tiles of the service porch floor. She found Hilda, her mother’s housekeeper and cook for as long as Liv could remember, busy chopping herbs at the marble-topped island in the center of the big kitchen.
‘‘Hildy, I’m home!’’ Liv announced in a teasing singsong. She breezed over to the imposing, stern-faced woman with the iron-gray hair and planted a loud kiss on her gaunt cheek. ‘‘Mmm. I smell stuffed pork chops. I think I’m in heaven.’’
‘‘Liv,’’ Hilda said, coming as close to cracking a smile as she ever did. ‘‘It is good to see your face.’’